The garage door opener whirred to life and I stepped away from Dad. He went back to being GI Joe, but the whole feeling between us was different now. I wasn't sure how, but we were almost back to where we were before – him my best friend and me his pride and joy. It was a pleasant surprise that it was possible to get this back, to get beyond all that negative emotion. I wanted to talk with him more, really make things right between us, but I knew that would have to wait. I was just glad the process had started.

Glancing at the screen, I saw that only Wheeljack was in his lab now. When the door was high enough, Prowl and Jolt joined us.

"We're secure," Dad said into a microphone as soon as the door closed again.

Wheeljack opened one of the cooler-looking things and, using two splinters of metal – probably Autobot armor, though I still hadn't had a chance to ask what exactly was wrong with Arcee – carefully picked up one of the pellets. "Begin log, mark. Projectiles from Ironhide. Observed characteristics: radioactivity, moderate heat, extreme density. Ability to disable Autobot systems. Apparently, the only Autobot technology immune to the slagging things is armor."

He carefully placed the pellet in what looked like a wide dish and then he hastily set the lid on top of the cooler again. "Commencing scans. Transmitting data to observation computer in real-time for backup and verification."

Weird hieroglyphs started scrolling up half of the screen, superimposed on the image of Wheeljack working. Every now and then he'd adjust something with his eyes or move his hands in a funny way, like he had sensors there.

Jolt shifted his feet behind me – it was something a human couldn't miss or ignore. "Arcee or Ratchet would be the best ones to interpret all this."

"What is it saying?" Dad asked.

"Nothing," Wheeljack answered. "There's nothing to interpret. Just fine-tuned radiation and something really solid."

"Fine-tuned?"

"It's emitting at a frequency with an unusually narrow range of variance. It's pinpointed, my guess is to concentrate the energy on the frequency that's disrupting our personal systems. Considering the weapon's effectiveness, it wasn't developed by some amateur. The very best of Decepticon engineering went into this one. My money's on Shockwave."

Dad and Prowl exchanged an unreadable glance. "That was the hunch all along. Your conclusions are noted, Wheeljack. Are you detecting anything that would indicate further risk from the pellets?"

"Besides being able to slow roast you humans for the next half-a-million years? No. In fact, there's enough power in them that I could probably use these to build an efficient little tabletop nuclear reactor, if you…"

Wheeljack building a nuclear reactor? OI!

"No sign whatsoever of spark energy?" Prowl demanded, thankfully cutting off that train of thought.

"None."

"Good. Operate on the working assumption that it is a micro Insecticon and proceed," the black-and-white Autobot ordered.

Erring on the side of caution, I guessed.

"Right. Well, if this slagging thing," Wheeljack prodded the pellet with an armor splinter, "is a micro Insecticon, then it'd have to be in protective stasis. How you could get even a micro Insecticon inside that, I have no idea, because once it was in there…Wait."

"What?" Dad asked.

"If it was a drone, you could make it work, maybe. A spark's resonance frequency would be disrupted eventually under long-term exposure to the pinpoint radiation, even if it was low-level."

Prowl shifted, his doors straightening up. "Explain."

"Well, an Insecticon would die before…"

"No, the drone part," Dad clarified.

"Oh. Well, a drone is hardier, even if it is less sophisticated. You build it to spec and put it in stasis, then seal it in armor. Place a layer of the irradiated material on it – or place the material on it and then irradiate it. That would be an interesting process right there, getting the correct alloy with the proper amount of exposure to produce the pinpointed frequency without compromising the internals, because even a drone –"

"Stay with us, 'Jack," Jolt said. "You've got the drone inside the irradiated pellet. Now what?"

"Simple. Make a containment projectile out of armor with fracture-lines that will break open on impact. Aim for the head or upper-frame and gravity delivers the pellets to the mech's internal systems. Or if you're feeling particularly vicious, you could pack 'em into an armor-piercing casing, but it would still need to break open on impact to deliver the pellets. Their primary function is obvious; secondary function could be everything from reconnaissance to attack to theft. If it were me, I'd set the drones to simultaneously activate and do whatever they were going to do at a pre-arranged signal – anything from a timer to an external, remote signal like a comm, though that would require reception…"

"How do we know if that's what we're dealing with?" Dad demanded.

Wheeljack wandered over to a workbench and rummaged around for a second. "Simple. Break it open." He returned with another dish-shaped piece of armor and a couple of heavy-duty C-clamps. I shook my head in disbelief – it must drive Wheeljack nuts to be reduced to techniques this low-tech. Placing the second dish inside of the first, he began tightening down first one C-clamp and then the other on opposite sides of the dish – improvising an Insecticon nutcracker.

A truly horrific thought crossed my mind just then. "A signal like breaking them open?"

The room was silent for a beat, and then everyone looked at me. I wanted to crawl under a rock; that'd teach me to open my big mouth. Wheeljack's hand paused on the C-clamp and he looked at me through the camera or whatever. "Now whose protégé are you, Spitlet? Ironhide and Chromia certainly wouldn't have taught you to use your head half so well as that. They're great for practical things like physics – velocity, trajectory, force, and such – but nothing actually devious. Who taught you to be smart?"

I gulped and looked from Prowl to Jolt and then finally to my dad. He was fighting a smile, and I relaxed a little. With his weird face-mask, I hadn't been sure if Wheeljack was joking or not. "It was…Mudflap. And Skids. They're always telling me stories at the football games. I thought they were just cool sci-fi ones, but I realized a couple of weeks ago that they were true. True stories about them. And almost every story had booby-traps of some kind."

Jolt started quivering, and I worried that maybe I'd made him upset until he busted out in a roar of laughter. He was so loud in that echoing, concrete room that I had to cover my ears. Dad and Wheeljack laughed with him, but Prowl just twitched his doors again.

"Skids and Mudflap!" Jolt chortled. "Wait 'til I tell Ironhide and Chromia!"

"I certainly hope you have the opportunity to tell Ironhide," Prowl said over Jolt's continued guffaws. "Wheeljack, do not proceed until we have all the pellets in containment."

"Pause log, mark," Wheeljack ordered the computer.

"How many are left in him?" Dad asked, sobering a little.

"Two," Prowl answered.

"How do you know?" I'd been curious about it ever since we'd joined Prowl today and he seemed to know everything that was going on.

"Internal comm. It's analogous to your text messaging."

Wait. "So…I could text any of you guys anytime?"

"Yes. That was the purpose in giving you an Autobot-enabled phone."

I started giggling. Sometimes I wondered if Prowl was really as cold as he seemed or if he just had a very dry sense of humor and a killer poker-face. "Autobot-enabled?"

"Pre-programmed with all of our comm frequencies."

"It's a little upgrade I developed," Wheeljack said amiably. "It's not like we Autobots are on your family calling plan. Your cell phone is one of a half-dozen highly advanced and top-secret prototypes."

"Under the table," Jolt clarified.

Prowl made a sound suspiciously like clearing his throat. "A direct violation of one of our own stipulations in the Alien Autobot Cooperation Act."

"Yes," Wheeljack said, shuffling a little like he was embarrassed. "Well, you can make regular calls on it, but it also has a transmitter programmed with each unique Autobot frequency. And a boosted range."

"How boosted?"

"In terms of texting? On a clear day, you could reach cell towers in Mumbai from here."

My jaw dropped and Jolt chuckled.

"It also has a self-destruct subroutine," Wheeljack continued. "If you ever lose it, you must notify us immediately so we can terminate it and give you a new one. Even technology as innocent-seeming as your phone could be disastrous in the wrong hands."

Innocent? James Bond would be freaking jealous of it! "Sure. Makes sense." An idea struck me. "What if you're not home? Can I leave messages?"

The Autobots looked confused, but Dad seemed to catch my drift. "No. There's no server to store the message if they're out of range, and they usually turn off their comms before going into recharge, erm, going to sleep."

Or while they were unconscious in the med bay. That was probably just as well; Ironhide deserved to hear my apology in person. But there were two Autobots I needed to text. "Okay. Could you, um, excuse me a minute?"

"Sure," Dad said, approval in his eyes. "We'll need to just relax for a few minutes anyway until the last of the pellets get here."

They started talking in more detail with Wheeljack about the scans he'd run, giving me a little bit of privacy. I pulled my backpack off and rummaged around in it until I found my phone. Pulling up Chromia, I sent, //I was a complete brat and deleted your texts, so I don't know what you were trying to say. It was wrong of me. I was wrong. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. Or if you can't do that, text me and cuss me out until you can. K? Please?//

I sent the same thing to Arcee. And then I anxiously began to wait. Nothing. I started to fiddle with my phone, playing with the settings. I changed the background, snapped off a picture of my backpack for practice, and curiously scrolled through the contacts. I was impressed – they had everyone programmed in, including Optimus Prime and Dad's office number. I even had both Sam's and Mikaeala's numbers for home, work, and cell.

I checked the time – it had been two minutes.

Arcee's text came back as undeliverable, so I assumed that she was resting or something. "Is there any place on the island where an Autobot wouldn't be in range?"

Wheeljack made a snorting sound and genially said, "You're getting reception in here, what does that tell you?"

"Good point."

Well, at least Arcee wasn't giving me a taste of my own medicine. Yet. I sighed. Honestly, what did I expect? After being rude to everyone for the last two and a half weeks, would they all just break out in song when I deigned to speak to them again? Sure, they loved me, but I'd hurt them. The force of the knowledge made something in my chest ache. I'd really, truly, terribly hurt them. People who had loved me and been my friends my entire life, and I'd treated them like dirt. It wasn't even their fault that they had to lie to me.

Chime. A text from Chromia. I eagerly opened it. //You slagging little glitch. There. That's a good all-around insult in Autobot.//

Oh crap. She was pissed. But she had every right to be.

A few minutes later, my phone chimed again. I opened it with dread this time. //My mate's life is hanging by a thread, and you choose NOW to apologize. Great timing, femme.//

Well, at least she didn't swear at me this time.

A few minutes later – chime. //The last pellet's out. I'm on my way to give you what's coming to you, Spitlet.//

Fingers shaky, I texted, //My dad's here. Please make an excuse to get him outside if you're going to kill me. And for the janitors' sake, don't make it too messy.//

The door began to open beside me and I scrambled to my feet, pocketing the cell phone and putting on my backpack. Time to face my fate.

I'd never seen Mia actually get violent. No one was ever stupid enough to provoke her – until now. I wondered if she'd just slap me or if she'd go so far as to throw a punch. I was relying on the fact that she had loved me to keep me safe from her infamous arsenal. It would probably be enough. I mean, I'd invited her to my birthday slumber party – that had to count for something, right?

Before the door was five feet off the ground, a blue motorcycle carrying two figures streaked into the room. Mia – the human Mia – jumped off the back seat of her bike and threw her arms around me. I stiffened. I hadn't anticipated her tackling me before she pummeled me. But we didn't fall down. She was laughing. Hugging me so tight I could barely breathe, she happily laughed, swaying back and forth a little bit.

Letting me go, she took me by the shoulders and shook me just a little bit, grinning from ear to ear. "Say it, you scrapping squishy. Say it."

"Say what?"

"That you're a slagging little glitch."

"I'm a slagging little glitch," I dutifully repeated, "and I'm so sorry, Mia!"

Mia hugged me again, and I breathlessly laughed with her this time. As the other person on the bike took off her helmet, I realized she was Mom. Looking at Dad, she said, "Did she honestly think Mia was going to kill her?"

"With Chromia, you never know," Wheeljack said from the safety of his lab.

"Shut up," she amiably shot back.

"Here we are." The engineer turned as Prime and Prowl both walked into the lab, Prime carrying the last container of pellets. I hadn't even noticed Prowl step out. He was over fifteen feet tall for crying out loud. How did I miss that? Wheeljack dumped their container into the one we'd brought over and replaced the lids. "Good. Now if you two will go back up to the observation lounge…"

"Are you sure you don't want at least one of us down here?" Optimus asked.

"I may not be a melee warrior, Prime, but worst case scenario, I should be able to handle a few microCon drones. Besides, you'll be just a minute away."

Nodding, the Autobot leader and his right-hand man, er, 'bot left the lab. Once we were all sealed behind the garage/blast doors, Dad gave Wheeljack the go-ahead. "We're secure."

'Jack began tightening down the C-clamps again. "Resume log, mark. Fracture-testing the sample pellet to reveal internal composition…"

Funny how he could make it sound so cool and professional. I would have just said 'crushing the stupid thing to see what's inside.'

We waited in silence as he shifted from one side to the other, applying more pressure until the pellet gave way with a crunk. A split second later, the lid flipped away from the open cooler and several dozen black things came flying out. Micro Insecticon drones. The other cooler tipped over but the lid's seal held.

"OUCH!" Wheeljack cried as they swarmed him, shooting little orange projectiles at him. One splatted on an eye, short-circuiting it.

Beside me, the garage door began rising. "We're on our way," Prime declared.

"No – ow – stay there! Ow! I've got it."

Chromia transformed and made an unhappy sound, and both she and Prime waited anxiously by the slowly-rising door.

"Don't want to let – ow – them out!" Shielding his good eye, Wheeljack staggered to a steel cabinet and grabbed what looked like a couple cans of paint. Waving away the stinging drones, he sloshed one can into the dish-shaped armor pan on top of the crushed drone. Opening the second can, he bellowed, "Blast dampeners!"

"Cover your eyes!" Dad barked.

My hands flew to my face, but I still saw a flash of light through my clenched eyelids.

"REPORT!" Prowl demanded. I blinked several times, seeing after-images from the flash.

"Still functioning," Wheeljack said. "Those drones stung like the Pit, though."

Chromia ducked under the door.

"Activating ventilation systems," Dad said, pushing a few buttons.

"Filter protocol zeta 22," Wheeljack ordered.

"Copy that." Under his breath, Dad said, "Good thing the EPA doesn't know about this place."

Prime impatiently dropped back into his truck form and roared under the door, starting to transform again as soon as he was on the other side.

I looked back at the window TV and the smoky image on the screen slowly cleared. Wheeljack – covered in scorch-marks on the right side of his body and with one eye still lifeless – was now curiously poking one of the blackened, inert drones lying on the table. The tipped-over cooler was rolling around on the bench, an angry hum coming from under its secured lid.

"What happened?" I asked.

Jolt chuckled as he and Prowl ducked under the door. "Wheeljack discovered the cure for micro Insecticon drones: Autobot bug-bomb."

"Just call me the Terminator," Wheeljack joked back.